Five
FIVE
Bea
M y phone dinged like it was having a seizure.
I looked at the screen, unsurprised to find the family group chat had come to life. If one person dared to send a text, it usually exploded within seconds. My five other siblings and I loved to talk, and the group chat was evidence.
Peter
Has anyone made plans for tonight? Sarah and I were hoping to see you, Bea.
Mom
Everyone can come here for dinner?
Peter
Maybe I can grill. Burgers or something? Or whatever Bea wants.
Ben
Burgers? I’m in
Stella
I hate my life. I have to work. BEA I’M DYING TO SEE YOU
Hollie
Per the usual, me and the girls probably won’t make it. Bea, want to get coffee soon?
Jackie
When I pick her up from the airport, we’re going straight to the apartment, not Mom’s. We need sister time. Deal with it.
Ben
If she doesn’t come to Mom’s, are we still having burgers?
The group chat went on and on like that. Ridiculous text conversations were simultaneously a perk and downfall of being the third child in a family with six kids. I acted annoyed at them and frequently wished (out loud) I was an only child, but it was all for show. The Thompson siblings were obsessed with each other.
The other person texting me was Adrienne Bell. We weren’t even two days post the final tour concert and she was already bombarding me with ideas for the next one and texting me her every blessed thought about upcoming things on the schedule. I politely responded until she sent a text that made me roll my eyes so hard I got a headache.
Adrienne
What are you wearing to the songwriter event next week?
Me
Pajamas
Adrienne
Haha. I’m serious. I’m trying to decide if I need to shop.
I didn’t text her back. I’d never disclosed my agent meeting with her. My signing with a label would rock her world. No use in telling her when I didn’t know what I wanted yet.
Besides the texts lighting up my screen, there were social media notifications. Always freaking social media. I loved my peers and fans—the ones that remained anyway—but was space ever an option? When could I just tap out? I wasn’t ready to discuss the next thing with them. I didn’t even know what the next thing was.
I chucked my phone into my purse and slipped off the barstool. Boarding started soon. And I needed to get there early to see if they’d let me carry on Glory. Some flights did, some flights didn’t.
Picking my way through the crowd, my nude heels clacked against the floor. Much to my annoyance, my brain mentally plucked chords to American Pie. My strides were like a metronome. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the tune. Even stopped walking for a second to break the rhythm.
I remembered the words Scribbs wrote so long ago: The ranch feels like a separate dimension from the rest of the world.
Boy, didn’t that sound nice?
Rest. Inspiration. Those words had slowly embedded themselves into my heart and mind. Stealing away to a quiet place, maybe one with bad reception, sounded so nice. The soft ping-ping-bleep of my phone grated on my nerves.
Then my phone rang.
I glanced at the screen and growled in frustration. It was Jerry.
I picked up, slowly weaving my way toward the correct gate.
“Hello?”
“Bea, hey this is Jerry Trace. You got a minute?”
“Yes, well, I’m at the airport so it’s a little loud.”
“This will only take a minute. I know you said you needed to take some time to think through the contract, but I just talked to Brian last night and the label has pending artists right now—several very similar to you. He asked me to put a little healthy pressure on you. We can’t sign all of you on, and you’re our first choice. I’d love to put Brian at ease and tell him you’ve come to a decision.”
“Thanks for letting me know, but I—” My words abruptly stopped. I groped for my next sentence a little too long.
“Bea? Did I lose you?”
“No, no. I’m here.” Frustration tightened in my chest and a red flush trickled over my face. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I won’t be signing anything until I sit down with my attorney and I can’t give my word right now…I really need time to…”
“Bea?”
I spoke quickly. “I need time to rest, Jerry. I just came off a tour. I’m exhausted. I can’t really?—”
A metallic, canned voice blared over the speaker: “San Antonio…delayed…A-12.”
For some reason, the announcement caused my moving body to lose momentum. I puttered to a stop in the middle of the terminal, a group of teens parting to flow around me. My brain jogged to catch up. I blinked as the words finally hit, full impact, on my heart. I let the phone fall away from my ear an inch or two and listened to the announcement as it repeated.
San Antonio, Texas.
Don’t go home, Bea.
I shook my head.
No. Wrong number. That was a crazy thought.
Don’t even find your gate.
Readjusting my phone over my ear, I tried to respond to Jerry, but my tongue felt stuck—frozen.
The serenity of Meadowbrook emerged in my memory with all the quiet beauty of a field of bluebonnets. The gentle, nearly melodic breeze—warm to a fault. The hundreds of pages of letters he wrote from his favorite places—the loft, the roof, his desk. How he’d written, “Silence used to scare me. But now, in the quiet, I find you. And I find me, too. It’s amazing how alive ink and paper can feel.”
Yes, alive. His descriptions of Meadowbrook kept the place living in my memory. Maybe my skin didn’t know the warm breeze, but I felt it all the same. I knew the scents, sounds, and sights of ranch living through him. He made it seem beautiful, comforting and homey, even with its imperfections. A perfect place to settle in and write some songs…
I could book a guest cabin .
Jerry cleared his throat, interrupting my spiraling train of thoughts. “I—caught you at a bad time, Bea. Get a good night’s sleep and give me a call in the morning, sound good? ”
I didn’t need a good night’s rest. Dad said I needed a nice, long break. And honestly? I suddenly couldn’t agree more.
A long break.
“No, I—I need more time than that, Jerry. Give me…a few days maybe.”
His pause said a lot. But, sticking to professionalism, he said, “Can I follow up with you day after tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
We said polite goodbyes and disconnected. Before I’d weighed the ramifications of impulsivity, my hands grabbed my phone and typed Meadowbrook Ranch guest cabins into safari. Five minutes later, I’d added an outdated but clean-looking Meadowbrook cabin to my virtual cart, hovering my thumb over the “auto-fill” prompt for my card information.
Was I insane?
I glanced down at my carry on. Being separated from my bags a few times before, I made a habit of having a bit of clothes, jammies, and basic toiletries in my bag. I had all I truly needed to walk away, until I could shop anyway.
I tapped autofill and confirmed my reservation.
When I discovered movement again, I power walked to the nearest ATIS screen, and found the flight to San Antonio.
I’m crazy. I’ve officially lost my mind.
6:44 p.m. departure time.
An hour later, I sat at gate A-12, completely doubting my grip on reality. But when my Denver-bound flight took off, I watched from the airport windows, not a single ounce of regret troubling me. Crazy or not, I was doing this.
Rest and inspiration—here I come.
I did have a few explaining phone calls to make though. The first one was to my younger sister, Jackie.
She skipped the greeting. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the air right now?”
“Yes.”
“What’s up? Did your flight get delayed or something? ”
“No. I missed it.”
“Missed it?”
“On purpose.”
She paused. “Hold up. Earlier, you said you were sitting at the bar, waiting. What happened?”
I explained every juicy detail like I always did. Jackie was the only person in the world who would understand. She alone knew about the cowboy from my childhood. Everyone else in my family thought I wrote letters to a penpal I met at music camp.
“Fine.” She sighed into the phone. “I’ll go to the airport and pick up your luggage on one condition.”
I tensed. “And that is?”
“Sneak a pic of your cowboy and send it?—”
I shrieked in laughter. “I’m not doing that!”
“I’m not done! He needs to have on his cowboy hat, be sweaty and-or dirty, preferably shirtless, pants slung low over his hips?—”
I wheezed in a breath. “Jackie! No!”
“Okay, then you can kiss your precious high-end make-up goodbye…and your throat spray…and your high-top Converse…”
I moaned. That stuff was expensive.
“Alright, fine. I’ll try to sneak a picture.”
“With his pants?—”
“Slung low.” I repeated with a laugh. “You’re ridiculous, you know. He might not even be handsome.”
The sarcasm in her tone boarded bitterness. “He’s a cowboy , Bea.”
“Well, he might not even live there anymore.”
“ If he doesn’t live there anymore, the deal’s off and you’ll just owe me.”
She helped me pass a little of my waiting time, and kept me entertained. But, despite the laughter, something I couldn’t put a finger on burned behind my breastbone. I wanted to deny the flame of hope flickering deep within.
I really hoped he still lived there…